The 270-mile German Alpine Road crosses the country from Lake Constance in the west to Berchtesgaden in the east. First dreamt up in the 1920s by an enthusiastic Bavarian called Dr Knorz, the road was supposed to encourage the nation to get out into the countryside and enjoy itself. In 1933 Hitler stuck his oar in, and what had been a rather lovely idea to promote Alpine tourism became a Nazi goal of national importance. “You vil enjoy yourself or else” takes the fun out a bit, doesn’t it? Hitler wanted the road to be bigger, better and more beautiful than anyone else’s road and ordered 26,000 labourers to get to work on 105 bridges, 15 tunnels and 10 viaducts. He wanted the whole of Germany to do star jumps, press-ups and other jolly Aryan things to the backdrop of good, honest German Alps, and this would be the road they would use to get there. Then his plan for global domination led to the second world war and the whole fantasy island project was shelved.
In the 1960s, without the input of a dictator, a more sensible course was planned but it still took until 2002 for the entire road to be completed. You would think that that would be enough time for them to put up a sign at the start. But in the chocolate-box-twee town of Lindau, the official start of the road was, as far as I could tell, unheralded.
A “Congratulations, this is the start of the great German Alpine Road. Have a great journey” would have been encouraging. Or maybe just a “Welcome to the GAR”. But after a couple of loops I couldn’t even find a “German Alpine Road this way”. And my posh satellite navigation computer woman couldn’t either. So I decided to park, have some spätzle and half of lager and get directions from a friendly looking circus troupe performing in the main square.
Finally, we (that’s me and let’s call her Samantha the sat nav) hit the right road. Samantha had to be muted because she was still trying to go back on the autobahn. I know it’s not a nice way to treat a lady but she wouldn’t accept that a wiggly road is better than a straight one. Despite her lovely upper-crust accent, she was showing herself to be a philistine. Instead, I put on Beethoven’s violin concerto, opened the roof and set off along the marvellously indirect road to Fussen.
The German Alpine Road is not like an Italian Alpine road. For a start it is wider and sweepier. Everyone can fit on it and the people driving it are fast and efficient, not suicidal. If a truck comes the other way you don’t see your life flash before your eyes. There are no Fiat Unos overtaking on blind bends. This doesn’t mean it isn’t fun . . . in fact it’s like being on a racetrack but with cows for spectators.
For three hours I just enjoyed getting to grips with the Mercedes CLK AMG cabriolet, flying over great passes up into the first fissures of the Alps. Shortly after dusk I arrived in Schwangau, the royal corner of Bavaria, as the last of the daytripping coaches headed out.
“The most famous castle in the world,” say the guides, but Schloss Neuschwanstein never really did any service as a castle at all. No bows or arrows, no brutal sieges, no suits of armour or torture, unless you count five hours of Wagner as torture. The castle is a massive folly built by Ludwig II, the super-camp, Wagner-loving, 19th-century Bavarian king. He used a stage designer rather than an architect, which I think says a lot.
Today the town at its base is a tourist hotspot by day and an eerily empty, dare I say romantic, little enclave by night. But I have to leave Samantha in the car (by now I feel as though I know her well but she is, after all, a computer) and dine alone in a rather fine restaurant constructed almost entirely of wood. And that isn’t the only good thing about it: the speciality was pig knuckle, proper Bavarian pig knuckle, served with dumplings and gravy. And when I ordered a beer it arrived in a glass container the size of a barrel. Contrary to myth, Germans do know how to enjoy themselves.
In the morning I strolled around Schwangau’s beautiful lake just like Ludwig must have done when he wasn’t choosing fabrics or dancing with Wagner. Even though he squandered millions and craved absolute power, you can’t help feeling a bit sorry for the guy — it’s quite forbidding up here in the lakelands and he clearly would have been happier as a dancing girl in Paris. He ended up face down in another lake near Munich — nobody’s sure if it was suicide or courtly murder.
Back in the Merc I was having problems with the weather. Day two would not be a top-down cabriolet day; nor would day three or four. My chosen stretch of road was making national news as the water levels rose and those nice Alpine cows started to float away.
Samantha and I kept calm — we couldn’t drive with the wind and the sun in our hair, but the lakelands were gorgeous. There were beautiful churches and rubbish souvenir shops in which to seek refuge, dark forests that would drive you insane with fear if you had to spend a night in them and always those heavily wooded bars staffed by buxom wenches in aprons to cheer up the evenings.
ON the final day the weather was still miserable. Around lunchtime visibility was near enough zero to make driving no fun at all. I pulled over at the (wooden) Cafe Hindenburglinde and while Samantha stayed in the car to plot yet another direct route for me to ignore I tried to decide whether the Filets vom Seeteufelschwanz in der Krauterkruste genraten auf Rahmpfifferlinge dazu Reis und gebackene Zucchini (€14.50 — about £9.90) sounded more appetising than the Hausgemachtes Hacksteak auf Rahmpfifferlinge dazu Petersilienkartoffel und Buttergemuse (£7.80). In the end I couldn’t decide and so settled for salami (£3.30).
In the time it takes to eat half a Bavarian sausage there was a miraculous change in the weather. My guidebook had issued grave warnings of sudden climatic shifts but this transition from total downpour to clear blue skies was entirely welcome. The cows were a-mooing, the shepherdesses a-skipping, and for the first time in four days I glimpsed the tops of mountains, snow-covered despite it being September. More importantly I could put the roof down again.
Mercedes are ten a penny in Germany but this one, when its roof is in action, makes people stop and stare. It opens in 17 seconds all at the touch of a button . . . hence the admiration. Or maybe the audience were just muttering “Tosser”.
Either way, Samantha and I had the finishing stretch in broad sunshine. Some of the joy was dampened once we arrived in Berchtesgaden by the statutory trip by tourist bus and original Nazi lift to the mountain-top Eagle’s Nest, the retreat built by Hitler’s mates to celebrate his 50th birthday. It clearly wasn’t the most thoughtful birthday present anyone’s ever given anyone: Hitler hated heights. Or maybe they knew that.
Back in Berchtesgaden, an oompah band did an admirable job of marking the end of my great drive. Despite the shadow of Hitler and the unseasonably constant rainfall, it’s hard not to smile when 14 trombonists and a fat guy with a drum are playing their hearts out in a town square. The next day there was just the matter of a five-hour drive back to Stuttgart.
Samantha would get her way — we would go direct — and I would find out how much fun it is to overtake a BMW at 150mph. But until then I had an evening of thoroughly un-British thigh slapping and stein drinking to enjoy.
Matt Rudd travelled to Stuttgart as a a guest of Germanwings (www.germanwings.com)
For maps and accommodation on the the German Alpine Road, visit http://homes.tiscover.com/project/alpenstrasse/
